


Abandon Shallow Waters (Or Never Learn to Swim)

by TheFictionFairy



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Reality, Explicit Language, F/M, Flirting, Pre-Canon, Sexist Language, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFictionFairy/pseuds/TheFictionFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy's always been the good little girl. She's wondering if it might be time to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandon Shallow Waters (Or Never Learn to Swim)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from Round 3 of The Walking Dead Kinkmeme on Livejournal: Daryl and Amy meet pre-Apocolypse, and she decides to hook up with someone totally inappropriate, for once.

Amy had never gone though the stereotypical rebellious phase as a teenager. She had heard all the half-whispered, giggly stories about other people her age – sneaking out at night to go to unauthorized parties with unauthorized dates, shoplifting, drinking whatever cheap, lukewarm beer they could get their hands on, occasionally smoking a joint or getting a tiny tattoo.

Amy had heard it all, but she'd never been part of it. She had been too busy being the baby of the family – coddled by parents who knew her entire schedule and would grill her if she took twenty minutes getting home from softball practice instead of the usual fifteen. But that was okay – most of the time, she really didn't feel like she was missing out on _too_ much.

Well… most of the time.

Amy had just graduated high school about a month ago. It was an odd sensation – like one chapter of her life had ended, and the other was taking much too long to begin. She felt stuck. Stalled. In limbo. Just sort of drifting along as the empty days yawned before her, nothing to do until she moved to college in the fall. Amy hadn't ever had this problem with the summertime before – usually, when she wasn't playing club sports, she was hanging out with her friends – but it seemed like everyone had vanished this year, busy with their own changing lives.

Amy was _supposed_ to be visiting Andrea for a few weeks – road tripping, like they'd always planned to do after Amy graduated – but apparently there was suddenly a _huge_ case that Andrea just _had_ to work on. It was on t.v. and in all the local papers, and Andrea sent her apologies along with an explanation that it was really, _really_ important for her career. So the sisterly bonding had been pushed back to _next_ summer. Even though Andrea wouldn't have been able to see it over the phone, Amy had smiled and said that it was fine, she understood, and good luck on the case – all the while fighting the urge to heave a disappointed (but not really surprised) sigh.

It was with this sense of aimlessness and boredom that Amy had agreed to drive a very expensive car (she knew nothing about it other than it was red and sleek and could go _really_ fast if there were no cops around) through six states so that her Uncle Greg wouldn't have to ship it up to Pennsylvania some other way. Once she had agreed, Amy had even gotten a tiny bit excited at the prospect – she had never traveled alone before, but she was an adult now. She was leaving home in the fall – she could prove (to herself, and to her parents) that she was mature enough to handle three days of self-reliance and responsibility.

Her father had been worried, wringing his hands at the idea of his baby girl on a twenty-hour (not counting rest- and sleep-stops) road trip all alone. But, after some gentle chastising from her mother, they'd reached a compromise: Amy's entire itinerary was planned almost to the minute; she would be staying only in highly-reputable hotels, taking only busy streets, eating only in family restaurants, and – most importantly – she was to _call home_ every two hours, and before bed every night. After she reached her uncle's house, she would be flying back down to Florida.

The arrangement put a bit of a damper on Amy's mood. She might not feel like an adult yet, exactly, but she certainly wasn't a little kid anymore. Did she really need to have her hand held like this from a thousand miles away?

This was Amy's second night on the road, and things were already going to crap. This morning, she'd gotten all turned around somewhere in Georgia. Her GPS had gone haywire, which Amy suspected was because all technology lived to spite her. She'd wasted most of the day on dusty back roads, lined by nothing but trees, trees, trees – not a single building or road sign to be found for miles at a time. She'd dutifully called her father every two hours, as promised, and had had to put up with him ranting and raving in her ear about the whole venture being a terrible idea while she tried desperately to find her bearings.

Amy had eventually – miraculously – stumbled upon the highway once again, but by then it was early evening. She was _so_ not willing to risk those dumb sign-less roads in the dark, so she'd pulled into the first motel she could find and asked for a room. This had sent her father into conniptions over the phone, but _oh freaking well, dad, do you expect me to sleep in the car?_ After another twenty minutes of listening to her father list all of the reasons she wasn't ready for this and she should just come home right now and his brother Greg could just hire someone more qualified and deal with it, Amy had cut him off with an abrupt goodnight and hung up the phone.

So here she was, sitting in a trashy redneck restaurant/bar just off the highway in a tiny town in backwoods Georgia, hoping to whatever God that might be listening that the silverware she was eating her greasy dinner with had been washed some time in at least the past year, all cranky and exhausted and sick to death of feeling like a _child_ and being told what to do all the time and just _accepting_ it like a good little girl.

Enter Daryl Dixon.

Daryl didn't usually go to Emery's after work. He wasn't really much for hangin' with the boys from the road crew, but he'd walked in on Merle on top of some chick or another when he'd gotten home. Daryl'd caught an unpleasant eyeful and a _'what the fuck you doin', boy? Just 'cuz you can't get no woman to even look at'cha don't mean you get to watch me!'_ before he managed to bolt. He'd ended up at Emery's out of a lack of anything better to do, a little extra cash in his pocket, and the desire to eat crappy food that he at least didn't have to catch and cook himself. 'Sides – he'd heard the guys saying they were coming here to celebrate, and Daryl figured buying the foreman a drink on his birthday might catch him some breaks at work later on. Couldn't hurt.

He didn't even notice the little blonde girl at first – he'd just hung back from the rest of the guys, drinking and not really talking. He wouldn't know what the hell to say, anyway. It wasn't until a few beers later when one of the boys caught sight of her and brought it up with the group. Then the talkin' started – she wasn't from 'round here, nice tits though, and pretty face, too bad she's sittin' down 'cause I'd like to get a look at 'er ass – the usual shit. Hoyt dared Joe to go buy her a beer, but Chris – pussy-whipped newlywed – ruined their fun by threatening to tell their girlfriends.

"Hey, Daryl!" exclaimed the birthday-boy Pete a little too loudly as he moved out to the edge of the group, clapping Daryl on the shoulder and making the younger man flinch at the sudden contact. "You're single, aint'cha? I mean, ya ain't never talked 'bout a girlfriend or nothin'." The guys all turned to look at him, and Daryl shifted his weight uncomfortably. This is why he never hung out with the guys – he didn't like this center-of-attention, talkin'-about-himself shit.

Daryl shrugged stiffly, wishing they would all stop _lookin'_ at him and that Pete would stop _touchin'_ him. "Nah," he muttered, ducking his head and hoping they'd lose interest.

They didn't. "Well, Hell, boy!" boomed Carter, the oldest man on the crew. "What'cha waitin' on?" he demanded, tugging on his scraggly gray beard. "Git over there 'n buy that bitch a beer! Least one of us should get laid tonight!"

Hoyt elbowed Joe and they both snickered. "Carter, man, you gettin' senile. Dixon been in this bar less times 'n Joe here's gotten laid in his whole life – which is pretty damn sad by itself–" Hoyt ignored Joe's sputtered _'Hey!'_ and continued smoothly, "–an' I ain't _never_ seen 'im say more'n two words to a girl in 'ere. He ain't got the balls."

The group turned away from the dim corner where Daryl had been standing, laughin' their asses off. In a few seconds, they were already on a new topic, but Daryl's blood was boiling.

Maybe it was what Merle said earlier, or all the beer, or the fact that damn it, Hoyt'd been tellin' the truth – whatever it was, Daryl found himself making his way around the distracted group and walking up to the booth in the corner where the pretty blonde was sitting.

She didn't seem to know he was there at first. She was too busy glaring at her fries, angrily smearing ketchup around her plate like a gory crime scene. Daryl hesitated, not knowing what to do next, because hell, Merle and Hoyt were right, he didn't _do_ shit like this. He had no clue how to deal with women that didn't get paid to do it regular.

"Uh…"

The girl looked up at him. Her eyes looked very green. Her lips looked very soft.

Daryl fumbled for something to say so that he wouldn't look like an idiot, trying to ignore the suddenly-hushed whispers of interest from the group he'd left behind.

Shit, now that he looked at her up close, he realized she couldn't be more than twenty. Maybe. It was something about her eyes – big and round and just… soft. Even when she'd been glaring at her food, it'd looked nothin' like he'd ever seen on a mad woman before (and he'd seen a lot of 'em, thanks to Merle). Most of 'em had eyes hard enough it felt like you were slammin' into a brick wall when they looked at you. But this girl… This girl was just so… open. Inviting.

She wasn't wearing makeup. She had a silver charm bracelet on her left wrist. There was a fancy cell phone sitting on the table, off to the side. Her shirt was pink and she was drinking a Coke.

And, damn it, he still hadn't said anything.

"You, uh. You wantin' somethin' stronger?" he asked, gesturing at her drink with a hand that still held a half-empty beer bottle.

The girl turned her eyes from him briefly to see what he was pointing at, before settling her gaze back on him again. Her eyebrows were crinkled, and there was a small, confused smile on her face. "I'm sorry?"

Daryl shifted his weight, feeling like an idiot. He couldn't look her in the eye. "'Cause if ya did, uh, want it, I could, y'know… buy it. For you." And _shit_ , but did he sound retarded.

The girl looked back up at him, a wariness in her posture that he was used to seeing in women when they looked at him. Daryl took a half step back, ready to just end it then and there, but she glanced at the cell phone and a sudden spark lit up her eyes. She grinned up at him.

Daryl started, shocked. Women didn't look at him like that – he'd seen them look at other men like that, but never at him. It was the same look that they wore around Merle after they'd had a little too much to drink and Merle'd whispered some nasty promises into their ears. It was a playful look. A hungry look.

But damn, if that wasn't a _good_ look on her.

"Sure," the girl said, swinging her body sideways in the booth so that she was facing him straight-on. "Sit. Help me finish my fries?"

Daryl's answering smile was small, but eager.


End file.
